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June 27, 2005

Volume 2, Issue 27

Today's theme needs to consider the following concept:

Brunettes in red dresses = nothing but trouble.

Film noir, dime-store detective novels, or modern-style fiction...choose your poison.

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Comments

She came to me with a sob story about a cheating husband, this brunette in a red dress. Being a sucker for a dame like that, I offered to drive her home.

Afterwards, we headed to her place to look for evidence. On the way, we had a flat. I pumped and she pumped, then we got out and fixed the flat.

As we walked in, the overhead light blew. I screwed and she screwed, then we fixed the light.

Then she pulled a pair of 38's on me. I fumbled for the bullets, but my gun went off prematurely.

Posted by: hnumpah at June 27, 2005 5:50 AM · Permalink

I always liked Gable movies, and Ann wanted to see Manhattan Melodrama. She said it’s playing downtown. With all the heat, I didn’t like the idea if going out, but, what the hell it’s only a movie. Besides it’s good to get out of her place once in a while. Jeez, one of the best known men in the country and admired in some quarters, and I’m living in a whorehouse, for crying out loud.

So we’re coming out of the movie, and I’m still wondering why she insisted on wearing that damned red dress. I always hated that dress.

Posted by: ErnieG at June 27, 2005 6:17 AM · Permalink

I'd been following her for weeks with no luck. During the countless hours in my car I would smoke and leaf through the surveillance photos: chin-length black hair, gorgeous lips.

Finally she walked out of her building. I followed in the car. She wore a red dress that showed just enough leg to be distracting. As I slowed for a red light, she dropped her purse. Bending down to get it she revealed even more of what polite men would call her figure.

That's when I bumped the car in front of me. She winked and slipped around the corner.

Posted by: Doctor Bean at June 27, 2005 7:08 AM · Permalink

My life’s over. My wife left me and took the kids.

It’s my own damn fault for having the affair, but she was irresistible. Tall brunette in a slinky red dress, with legs that went all the way up.

I should’ve known a babe like that was trouble. Blackmailed me, and then told my wife anyway. Lucky she didn’t go to the papers, and blab to my constituents, too.

I knew I should’ve gone for that chunky chick in the blue dress that was hanging all over Bill, instead. That’s the kind of girl who can keep her mouth shut.

Posted by: Max at June 27, 2005 7:11 AM · Permalink

“You have to help me, Alex.” The voice on the phone is urgent. It’s two in the morning but what can I do? Family is family even if you haven’t seen each other in years.

“What did you do this time?” I ask.

“Nothing. I swear it. The police mistook me for somebody else.”

“Slow down. What do you need?”

“I’m at Precinct 5. I need bail money, Alex.”

“How will I know you?”

“I’m in a red dress with brown hair, Alex. See you soon?”

I sigh and hang up. Sometimes I wish I had a more normal brother.

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at June 27, 2005 7:41 AM · Permalink

She was trouble from the moment she landed. Brown hair, red calico dress; everybody helped her because she was young and pretty. But I knew she wasn’t naïve. After all, she had killed my sister.

Looking back, I should have stayed out of it. The conniving bitch made me look like the villain right from the beginning. Everything I did, every trick I tried; nothing stopped her. Worse, it all ended up backfiring on me. How do you deal with someone like that?

But time is on my side. I know I’ll get her eventually. And her little dog, too.

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at June 27, 2005 7:59 AM · Permalink

She walked into my office like she owned the joint-- wait, actually, Olga, my landlady, when she comes around each month for the rent, she doesn't 'walk' so much as 'waddle', and the way the Widow Lohan moved was very nearly the exact opposite of that.

I knew she was trouble when I first saw her in that red dress, still stained with graveyard dust. So when she offered me 20,000 to find out who killed Senator Lohan, with hints of additional rewards, I turned her down flat and referred her to a competitor. My momma didn't raise no fools.

Posted by: Jeff R. at June 27, 2005 8:32 AM · Permalink

Her hair was brown as old church pews, but her dress was red as blood, red as the flames of hell, a scarlet 'A' wrapped tightly around her body but threatening to unwrap any time. When she moved her body swayed like a serpent under some swami's spell. When she spoke her chest heaved like two new volcanic islands.

"I need your help." I snapped to attention like a marine. Then I spotted the Derringer. It barked like a door slamming, twice. Blotches of blood bloomed on my chest like roses. Then my vision went black as last night's coffee.

Posted by: Jeff R. at June 27, 2005 2:24 PM · Permalink

As the radio on the table crackled out "Breaking Up is Hard to Do," I nodded solemnly.

"You said a mouthful, brother."

I always knew she was going to be trouble. Mom kept saying she was too pretty for me. "She's going to be a runaround."

She was a little brown-haired angel that day in the church.

Beauty fades. Looking down at what used to be her face, this was pretty obvious.

Blood on the other hand, that took some doing. It was going to be hell getting that dress back to the way it was on our wedding day.

Posted by: Adam at June 27, 2005 4:42 PM · Permalink

"Spend money to make money" Da used to say.

So the Chinese-red dress I wore was real silk and lace-topped stockings winked through the slit. My stole was silver fox and I had paid well the little girl who had done magic with my dark hair.

Da had traveled the Orpheum Circuit, card tricks and sleight-of-hand.

"Make the mark look where you want him to"

I laughed remembering Da and the man I had advanced on, the stole slipping, leaning in, letting him see just how low the top of my dress really was ...

The teller hadn't stood a chance.

Posted by: Darleen at June 27, 2005 6:05 PM · Permalink

She was at the bar, dress the color of arterial blood, mahogany hair so rich a man would do anything to see it fanned out across a pillow.

I'm one of those men.

Like the dead man I had just left.

She picked up the tumbler swallowing the amber liquid without a flinch.

Scotch. Neat. I think I'm in love.

"Dead?"

"Ma'am, you don't seem to be too broken up."

She snapped open a small clutch, pulling out a monogrammed hankie to dab at her eyes now starting to water.

"Better?"

Seems the Gates of Hell are perfumed with Shalimar.

Posted by: Darleen at June 27, 2005 6:07 PM · Permalink

The bridge rocked. I was nearly thrown from my chair. Chekov looked at me with panic in his face. "The shields are veakening Kaptian", he said.

Uhura was next. "We're being hailed Captain."

"Put it on screen," I barked.

The bridge violently rocked again.

Suddenly a voluptous brunette in a red dress appeared on the screen.

"How dare you treat me like some one night stand" she snarled. "You'll pay for this insult!"

Spock turned to me with a lifted eyebrow and said, "Promiscuity is not logical."

Bones smiled and replied, "I believe the Captain has his own Prime Directive."

Posted by: Gahrie at June 27, 2005 7:42 PM · Permalink

I was sitting at my usual place, the end of the bar furthest from the door, engaged with a scotch on the rocks. She walked in. A lithe vision. Dark hair and a clinging red silk dress that fell to her knees and worshipped them as she walked.

The usual suspects immediately orbited her. I knew the lines they were spinning without even hearing them. "What's a nice girl..." and so forth. She was not a nice girl, so I knew that wouldn't work. They kept trying anyway. The saps.

She sat next to me. "Keep your mouth shut."

Love.

Posted by: david at June 28, 2005 12:32 AM · Permalink